


Appetite For Destruction

by ivorygates



Category: Stargate SG-1
Genre: Daniel Really Isn't Well, Dark, F/M, Masturbation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-10-01
Updated: 2009-10-01
Packaged: 2018-07-19 18:19:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 887
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7372516
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ivorygates/pseuds/ivorygates
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The attraction is the damage.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Appetite For Destruction

**Author's Note:**

> So one night in the long ago, Synecdochic ran a quick porn challenge in her DWJ, and while the idea of porn is that it should be EROTIC, I came up with this instead...
> 
> Warnings: Dark, reference to implicit sexual coercion, reference to bestiality.

Daniel Jackson collects vintage erotica.

_(Pornography.)_

It's a taste he never really had the money or _(really)_ the time to indulge before. It's odd to think of having more time now than he did in grad school or as an obsessed postdoc, but money makes up for time to some extent. There are catalogues.  
  
There's something at once so innocent and so visceral about the photos and films of forty, fifty, sixty years ago. Some of the photographs he's seen even date back to the early days of photography; they're over a century old. He likes the photographs best. Older, rarer. _(Filthier.)_

He'd run across this sort of thing, knew about it _(touched himself to climax remembering the images)_ years ago, of course. But it's different to be able to _own_ it. To seek out the very special ones.

_(The perverse ones.)_

Modern pornography doesn't arouse him. He knows too much about the way the world works. It's all glossy, fake, staged. And so terribly bad. _(For the wrong values of "bad", of course.)_

But the past is a foreign country. The dreadful earnestness of a stag film from the 1930s, the consciousness of social transgression implicit in the images of women bound and gagged and flogged ... it's the rawness, the possibility of coercions, that _(he knows)_ is at least part of the allure.

He can't _(quite)_ remember if it used to be. Was it just _(once upon a time)_ that he was shy, and tongue-tied around women, and fascinated by the past? Maybe. _(He can't remember now.)_ And then the dust of the dead and ancient past clothed itself in warm and living flesh, and loved him back for a brief and glorious year.

And now she's gone and Daniel clutches at images. Images of wronged women to stir his harrowed flesh, because he needs to feel. Something.

His collection is extensive by now. He's no freak. _(So he tells himself.)_ He doesn't insist on originals. Art books. Compilation DVDs. It's only the image that interests him. Fortunately his German is excellent; Taschen is the usual publisher for this sort of thing. _(The Germans are perverse: who could have suspected?)_

#

SG-1's latest mission was another dead-end. No closer to winning a war he doesn't want any part of, no closer to finding his wife. He feels the man he used to be slipping away day by day like sand through a winnowing sieve, and nobody seems to notice or care but him. By the time he's done with after-mission protocols and can leave the Mountain, he's tired and edgy and he aches.

He doesn't bother to turn on the lights as he walks into his apartment. The last light of day is coming through the windows; it's enough to navigate by. He walks into the kitchen, pours himself a glass of wine, takes it in to the bedroom. There he switches on the bedside light and sets the glass down on the nightstand.

Jack has tactfully suggested an outcall service _(very discreet)_. Daniel suspects Jack make take advantage of one; it wouldn't touch what Daniel needs, and the idea of being unfaithful to his wife revolts him. He takes down one of the books from his shelf. This is all he needs.

He's often wondered what it is about these images -- some grotesque, some merely silly, few conventionally erotic -- that _does it_ for him. Just as well ask why some men are fixated on tall blonds, or short brunettes with large breasts, or shoes. Erotic triggers, erotic response, is a complicated thing.

He strips to his underwear and sits back against the headboard, sipping his wine as he pages through the book. One of the most expensive in his collection; reproductions of turn-of-the-century postcards, each image hand-colored and tipped-in. The poses and the subject matter couldn't be recreated even in today's climate of sexual freedom: it's bestiality. Men and women, donkeys, dogs, sheep, even a leopard. _(It's nothing particularly new -- there's nothing new in the world -- bestiality was a featured event in the Roman arena and the Mongols boasted of having intercourse with both their mares and their hunting cheetahs.)_ He strokes himself absently through the soft cotton of his shorts as his cock starts to harden.

When his glass is empty, he sets the book aside and turns out the light. He kicks the covers to the foot of the bed, slides his briefs off, reaches for the drawer and pulls out the bottle of lube. It's cold and thick as he slicks up his cock, and he forces his mind away from the automatic somatic comparisons _(to cunt, to blood)_ as he carefully pumps himself. He concentrates on the images. Arousal for the human male is primarily visual.

The attraction is the damage.

It's something Daniel tries to forget every time he does this. The women in the films and the photographs he owns are _(because of the age of the films, because of the age of the photographs)_ , prostitutes, coerced into participating by an absence of choice. _(Or by a presence of an all-but-owner.)_ Enslaved and victimized and helpless, and he, decades later, validates their enslavement by his response to it.

He grits his teeth as his body arches. His throat aches with strangled breath. And he wants -- oh, he _wants_ \--

Sha're...

_(Amaunet.)_

###


End file.
